Against the Tide
by redstarsarc
Summary: James Norrington was killed aboard the Flying Dutchman and left for the sharks. A day later, he woke up. But this second chance comes with a price and now, with a curse slowly consuming him and the undead pirate, Jolly Roger, on his tail, he seeks out the only person who can help him. Captain Jack Sparrow.
1. Resurrect

**Hellooo there! And welcome to Against the Tide, a Norrington resurrection story. I own nothing except for one crusty old fisherman and fisherman's wife. Enjoy!**

* * *

Dying didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. It was only a sort of pressure in his chest. He was more aware of the chill against his face and the railing against his back. What did hurt was the way she screamed his name. _That_ cut through to his very soul.

It was hard to breathe and with each struggle, a discomfort grew inside him, an increasingly sharp ache and that's when the fear blossomed in his mind. His hands shook. Her face swam in his vision, eyes studying his, filled with worry. He remembered when he'd finally mustered the courage to propose out at the parapet of Fort Charles, looking out into the harbor. She had looked so beautiful.

Her image faded and he was suddenly struck with cold as a monstrous visage loomed over him.

"Do you fear death?" The words were distant and took a second to reach him. Vaguely, he could feel the comforting weight of his sword still in his hand. Did he fear death?

Yes. He did. He feared it so very much.

But none of that mattered now. He thought he raised his sword from the deck, though he wasn't sure.

He could no longer feel himself breathing.

For a brief moment, he thought he'd gone deaf and was now going blind.

He wished it wasn't quite so cold.

* * *

With his first startled gasp, Norrington's lungs filled with sharp, salt water. His eyes opened, unseeing. His failed breath instinctively prompted another and panic set in along with a tremendous burning in his chest, like fire. He thrashed, unable to tell up from down and then instincts took over and his legs kicked out and his arms moved, following the rising flurry of bubbles created from his frantic movements. He rose quickly, burning, blind, the ascent maddening in the eternity it took until finally his head broke the surface and he wretched seawater and bile into the endless ocean around him, fingers clawing at the cravat around his neck and tearing it loose. His gut clenched, his throat was red and raw. His eyesight was just beginning to clear, giving him the vague image of a blue horizon. Something roared distantly in his ears.

" _Do you fear death?_ "

Norrington shuddered and when he'd gathered his wits back about him, he realized that he was alone. He treaded water, bobbing as the sea lapped the sides of his head. Rasping and grimacing with every sharp breath, he spun around and found nothing in any direction. There was no sign of the _Flying Dutchman_ and he realized with startling clarity that he'd been thrown overboard.

Thrown overboard because he was dead.

Norrington continued to struggle for breath and tried to come to terms with this realization. He felt numb, his situation unreal as if it were happening to someone else. Gingerly, he adjusted his stroke and reached up with one hand to test the flesh of his throat, fingers just above his sodden cravat. It took a moment for him to stop his hand from shaking and at first, he could feel nothing. And then it was there, quick and strong. He let out a shaky breath and then coughed. Salt scratched his throat.

He was alive. Somehow, despite his circumstances, he was alive. He didn't understand. The sky was clear, the sun setting in the west and he realized he'd been in the sea for at least a day and part of a night. If anything, he should have drowned. Only he'd died, hadn't he? Before landing in the water. Thinking back on it now, he wasn't so sure.

Taking a breath, he ducked under the water to examine himself and quickly spotted the brown stain on his waistcoat, faded from the water and the events of that night rushed in with shocking suddenness. He quickly undid the buttons to expose pale skin and an even paler wound, a ridge of puckered flesh that had impossibly been busy healing while he'd been dead.

If he had indeed been dead. He was starting to have his doubts. He hadn't the slightest clue what had truly happened to him; his last memory was shooting his pistol out over the water, smelling the smoke, and hearing a woman scream.

His head emerged from the water and he breathed and leaned on his back to float. He was tired. The breeze buffeted him like a piece of flotsam and water got in his eyes and nose. He stared upward and watched as the stars began to come out and night began to settle around him like a shroud.

He had no food, no fresh water, no boat. He was in the middle of the sea, stranded, alone. He spared the thought that he would soon be dead again. He wasn't sure what he thought about the idea. He'd made such a mess of his life. Perhaps it was no more than he deserved.

* * *

Miraculously, perhaps by divine or supernatural intervention, he didn't drown. His throat still ached, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that there was still liquid in his lungs. His tongue was dry and he wanted nothing more than a drink of fresh water and had to force himself not to settle for seawater. All around him was nothing but temptation and not a single fish.

He didn't know how many days passed or why his body persisted in drawing breath. He dipped in and out of consciousness, in and out of reality. In his dreams, he kept seeing Elizabeth. He remembered when he'd first met her, a young child in England and he remembered watching her grow up into a beautiful young woman and he remembered the moment he'd realized that he loved her. It was during a ball at the governor's mansion. She was wearing a faded yellow gown with pleated skirts and her hair was pulled up fashionably, exposing her slender neck. He dreamed of her and lost contact with the real world and with his desperate thirst and weariness and for a long long heartbeat did not know whether he was alive or dead.

* * *

No fish. How in blazes were there no fish in this area of the sea? Didn't they understand that they were his livelihood? How was a man to live without any damn fish?

Tom grumbled and cursed his way back to shore, fishless, and grumbled and cursed as he tied his boat up to the dock and grumbled and cursed as he stomped back onto the beach and only stopped when he spotted the prone body of a man lying in the surf.

He wandered over and prodded the body with his foot which was clad in a shoe so worn he hardly noticed its presence anymore. The body didn't move.

"Poor chap," Tom said and took in the state of his clothes which, while grubby and water-logged, were rather ornate under all that. He hoped there were some items of value in the man's pockets or maybe a money purse and he knelt down to check, pushing the man onto his back to do so.

The man groaned.

"Aw, damn," Tom said. He glanced back over his shoulder and then back at the man and considered rifling through his pockets anyway. Under his hesitant prodding, the man groaned again and his eyes flickered open but they were unfocused and unseeing. They closed and Tom cursed again.

This just wasn't his day.

* * *

The world transitioned between light and dark, things rushed past his eyes, snatches of conversation he was too slow to catch. He remained on the precipice of wakefulness for a second or an eternity, it was hard to tell. When finally time and reality snapped back and melded with his present, he found himself lying on his back on a straw mattress with a wool blanket pulled over him.

Norrington stared up at the wooden ceiling, studying the whorls and imperfections in the grain and then he sat up. His throat was dry, there was an ache in the back of his head. He found that he was wearing a simple shirt and breeches and that his waistcoat and shoes sat in a heap in the corner of the room. Somewhere along the path from the sea to here, he'd lost his coat.

There was a window beside the bed and he looked out to see the receding shore under overcast skies.

The door opened and woman entered. She was plain to look at, in an informal gown worn by years of chores, her graying hair bundled up haphazardly beneath a bonnet. Her face was lined but not ugly.

"Yer lucky yer not drowned," the woman said as she placed a bowl of water on a side table. A swollen rag bobbed around in it. Norrington wondered if there was anyone else in the house. She certainly didn't look like a maid.

"What happened?" The sides of his throat stuck together painfully when he spoke and his words came out scratchy beyond comprehension. Despite this, the woman seemed to understand him or at least guess his meaning.

"Tom found ya washed up on the shore. No wreckage or nothin' though. Didja fall overboard?"

Her words brought back memories of coldness and fear, going to sleep on the slimy deck of a ship and waking up in the sea. He shuddered.

"That may well have been what happened," he said or tried to say.

The woman frowned. "I'll get some water," she said and left, returning moments later with a grimy-looking glass that under ordinary circumstances Norrington would have taken only reluctantly but the water was fresh and slightly cool and hurt on the way down only in a good way. It made him cough and wince and then put the glass on the table.

The woman waited for his coughing fit to subside before reaching for a wet rag, wringing it out, and dabbing it on his face and he realized that it was rather hot.

"Tom says that's a navy uniform," she said. Norrington wasn't really sure how to respond to that or if she'd even understand his response but she continued before he could figure it out. "Were ya in battle?"

He could still feel the sword in his ribs and hear the screaming and the chanting. He reached for the glass and stared into it despondently. It was empty.

"I'll get another," the woman said and took the glass from him and left again.

Norrington shifted on the bed and again gazed out the window. Once his thoughts had begun to come back together, his mind had immediately gone to reporting to the admiralty and resuming his commission but then stopped short. What was there left for him in the navy? He'd already resigned once in disgrace and had stooped to betrayal in order to regain his position. Since then, he'd tried to perform his duties as he always had, but it had never quite sat well with him, pledging loyalty to that distasteful man who no doubt cared very little about the loss of one officer, admiral though he may have been. And if Norrington was honest with himself, he didn't want to go crawling back to Beckett. Elizabeth's words to him after her capture left a bitter taste in his mouth and it had been then that he'd realized the depth of his mistake. To think he'd believed Beckett's lies and that the governor, his friend, had died without knowing that his daughter was safe.

No, not died. Murdered.

A door opening and then closing somewhere in the house jolted him away from his thoughts. He heard voices. And then the door to his room opened only it wasn't the woman who stood there but a man. He was shrunken and sun-tanned with an unkempt beard. His eyebrows nearly met in the middle, big and white and bushy.

"I got fish," was the first thing he said.

"I'm surprised ya didn't die," was the second.

Truth be told, so was Norrington.

The woman emerged from behind her husband and placed the glass, now full, on the table. Norrington eyed it longingly but instead turned his attention back to the couple.

"I have you to thank for my life, I take it," he said. His voice was half-whisper, half-croak but somehow the man seemed to understand him.

"Name's Tom Abney," the man said. "My wife here is Martha. Found ya lyin' in the surf and woulda left ya fer dead if I hadn't taken pity and gone over ta check."

Norrington wrinkled his brow at this but chose not to press the matter. "Adm–" He coughed. "James Norrington."

"Well James, if yer well enough, feel free to join us at the table for supper. We're havin' fish."

Norrington had already supposed this and so he nodded. He imagined eating would be quite painful but also realized that he was very hungry. He drank some more of the water.

Cradling the glass in hands that were a lot more steady than they had been before, he said, "I'm afraid I don't have anything to wear." He eyed his discarded clothing, ragged and crusted with salt, an ugly brown stain over the waistcoat's front. Definitely not appropriate attire for supper.

"Tom can lend ya an extra waistcoat," Martha said and, taking in the state of the couple, poor, their clothing worn and patched in places, Norrington would have to be content with that.

And afterward, he would take his leave and head…where? He certainly didn't want to go back to Beckett nor did he wish to face the admiralty. He supposed that meant desertion but that notion left him feeling ill and ashamed.

He wondered if the fleet had found Shipwreck Cove yet. He wondered if Beckett knew what had happened to him. He wondered if Elizabeth was still alive.

All these thoughts and more troubled him throughout the rest of the day.

* * *

At supper, Norrington learned that he'd washed ashore just outside a small town in Essequibo, a Dutch settlement in Guyana. He knew very little of the place except that he was ready to leave as soon as he could book passage. He contemplated returning to Port Royal and then seeking out news of Elizabeth's whereabouts and of the conflict that was surely brewing at Shipwreck Cove if it hadn't been resolved already.

The problem was he had no money.

"I imagine you'll need to get back to yer ship," Tom said.

"Mm." The fish had been cooked and put in a sort of stew and there was a loaf of bread and some rum which tasted much better than the water had.

"Which ship were you on?"

Norrington grimaced. He didn't think it wise trying to explain that he'd been reluctantly posted aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ , that legendary ghost ship captained by the fearsome Davy Jones. Instead, he said, "The Endeavour."

Tom nodded at that. Maybe he'd heard of the ship, maybe he hadn't, it didn't matter. He was simply being congenial.

In the distance, thunder growled.

Tom scowled at the window. "That storm better not come over here."

Norrington, who had hoped to go down to the docks the next day, hoped the same.

The thunder growled again. Then, several seconds later, there was lightning. Norrington frowned. That definitely wasn't the way it worked.

"Well, if yer all done, I have some cleaning to do before bed. Ya should go and make sure those lines are secure." This last was addressed to Tom as Martha stood and went to collect their bowls. It was then that Norrington realized he'd eaten the whole meal.

There was more of the thunder. Two seconds later, there was lightning.

Something was uneasily familiar in the backwards nature of the situation and he recalled, nearly two years earlier, howling winds, the creak of a ship's rigging, horizontal rain, lightning that came split seconds after bone-jarring thunder. And then the shadow of a ship emerging from the storm.

Norrington thanked his hosts and excused himself and went back to his room where he thought about hurricanes and ghost ships and death before slipping into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The thunder shook him awake and he waited for the lightning until he realized that it wasn't thunder at all. Norrington bolted upright. For a second as he gazed out the window, his eyes adjusting, he thought the sky was green, the deep sea green of colonies of growing things on the sea floor and on the rotted carcasses of ships but then he blinked and the sky was dark.

The sound came again and he recognized it from a lifetime of service in the navy as cannon fire.

Instinct overrode weariness. Leaping out of bed, Norrington threw on the waistcoat Tom had lent him and put on his shoes and reached for his sword only to realize it wasn't there. Abandoning the notion, he ran from the room.

He met Tom who was loading a musket, busily ramming a ball down its long barrel. Martha was beside him and still in her night things.

Norrington couldn't see much through the window. "What is happening?" He couldn't help but remember a similar night, a stroll on the ramparts with Governor Swann when cannons had caught them by surprise.

"Pirates," Tom said, his voice low.

Norrington tensed. He'd thought any pirate who mattered would be at Shipwreck Cove to meet Beckett's fleet, but perhaps he was wrong.

"Do you have any more weapons?" Norrington said. "I intend to join your fighting forces in repelling them."

"Repel them? Get slaughtered, you mean," Martha said, taking Norrington aback. He stared at her. "Those are no ordinary men. Why, they're no men at all. Beasts is what they are. Eldritch, cursed things." She shuddered.

"Madam, I have seen my share of curses," Norrington said. "If I let a little thing like that stop me, I wouldn't be where I am now." Which might have been for the best, now that he thought about it.

Still, Martha looked uncertain. Tom held the musket close, but made no move to go toward the door. A last defense, then. Whatever help that might be if the invaders were indeed cursed.

Steeling himself, Norrington left them and stepped out into the night. The air was warm, wet. The beach curved up and away from the little house and he caught the glimmering lamplights of the town. Just off-shore was the shadow of a ship and Norrington's heart seized. It was a two-masted schooner, its sails tattered beyond all practical use. Her gun ports flashed as she fired a broadside into the town.

His feet were frozen in fear, his heart in his throat, as he stared at this apparition from his past. There was thunder and then there was lightning. Above the ship, the moon was a vague, sickly green.

Norrington ran. Against his better judgment, against his mind's protests, he ran toward the town and toward that ship and toward his fears.

The first thing he heard was the crack of muskets. The second was a choking cry. In the dim light of the lanterns and moonlight among the clouds, he saw marines forming a firing line, pointing their muskets to the sea. It worked for a single round. No one had time to reload after that before the pirates were upon them.

They were indeed cursed.

At first, all Norrington could think was how someone had found Isla de Muerta again, now that it had sunk into the sea, and he wondered if these pirates had any intention of breaking said curse.

They fell upon the marines like rabid wolves. Wielding a varied assortment of weapons – cutlasses, sabers, daggers, boarding axes, even sharpened bones – they hacked and stabbed in silence, their vocal chords rotted away. Their bones were brown with leather, ragged strips of skin and tendon hanging from them, the torn remnants of clothing clinging to their sharp frames.

They looked just like Barbossa's crew on that night outside Isla de Muerta when he'd come to believe in curses.

A marine struck one in the head with his musket before casting it aside and drawing his sword which he promptly dropped when a pirate stabbed him in the throat. It was as he'd remembered and he wanted to shout out a warning. That these pirates couldn't be killed, that they were already dead.

What good would that have done?

Norrington ran and scooped up the fallen man's sword and used it to break the ribs of a pirate about to bury its axe in another man's chest. The pirate looked surprised insomuch as a skeleton could look surprised, but Norrington didn't give it time to recover. He kicked it just below the knee and there was a sickening crack as the pirate keeled over, one leg suddenly shorter than the other and then Norrington cut off its head. This didn't seem to deter it however as it continued to crawl across the ground, blindly searching for him while its head gnashed its teeth angrily. So he'd been right about that, at least. Fortunately, these critters seemed to be a deal more fragile than Barbossa and his lot had been.

Standing at the side of strangers, he joined them in fighting the abominable creatures. All his experience and skill as a swordsman washed over him and his mind faded as his body took over, muscles trained to act and react with strength and precision, eyes fine-tuned to the slightest of movements. He didn't think, he didn't plan. Thinking only got in the way. His sword slashed and stabbed and cleaved but for all the enemies it cut, it saw no blood, remaining as dry as the bones of the undead pirates.

For all the time that had passed and all the things he had seen and done, he could very well have been back on the _Dauntless_. Even as he fought on her moonlit weather deck, she was taking on water. He could taste it in his mouth and it stung his eyes and he could only watch as the dark ship vanished back into the storm.

A peal of thunder, the simultaneous silent flash of light.

Beside him, a man dropped dead with no sign of a mortal wound, only an expression of pure terror. Norrington's mind rushed back to him and he breathed heavily, half of a severed hand clinging to the sleeve of his shirt like a stubborn dog.

Another man let out a choked cry and fell to his knees, hands clawing at his throat and face before keeling over. Norrington's grip tightened on the sword. The ship's attack had ceased and so too had the pirates' invasion or perhaps he'd incapacitated enough to make a difference.

A figure materialized out of the darkness and in his presence, the survivors fled. Those who did not flee fast enough were struck down. Pirates cowered and backed away.

Norrington stood, transfixed. By the green light of the moon, he could make out the captain's features. Sharp, angular edges, deep eye sockets, a prominent brow with a simple design carved directly into the bone. One leg ended in a sharp hoof, one skeletal arm merged into a jagged mixture of sword, pistol, and dagger. A weathered tricorn sat upon his head, two playing cards stuck in the brim. His hollow gaze fell on Norrington.

Norrington's heart fluttered and stopped for two beats. The captain's left hand, the one that wasn't a bristling array of weaponry, was pointing in Norrington's direction, fingers splayed. Coldness washed over him, biting deep into his bones.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, something was burning him, attempting to strip the flesh from his bones. Something glowed darkly in the captain's eyes and then he closed the distance between them. Norrington noticed no transition between when the captain was standing several meters away and when he was standing directly in front of him. There had been no steps taken. One second, the spell had snared Norrington, the next, their faces were inches apart. Norrington grimaced. His borrowed sword fell to the ground. He reached up his hands to pry loose the hold on his throat only the captain was not physically touching him.

Then, just as quickly as the spell had grabbed him, it let him go. Gasping, he fell to his knees, sucking in grateful breaths of air, his skin tingling from the touch of fire but it was still all there and was not burnt.

The captain still stood before him, looming, ominous, a dark aura shrouding him and Norrington looked up and forced his gaze to meet that of those empty eye sockets. He didn't know why the creature hadn't simply killed him, why he had let him go. The skeletal captain was staring down at him, scrutinizing him. His gaze was penetrating.

And then he laughed.

It was a deep, hollow laugh that reverberated around in his hollow chest cavity and silenced the thunder. Norrington could still acutely feel the cold inside him and became colder still at the sound of that laugh. The laughter conveyed that the captain now knew something which Norrington didn't or perhaps that he found Norrington's mere existence as a humorous thing or ironic.

Norrington stared upward at him and didn't find the situation humorous at all.

Eventually, the laughter subsided. "I had no idea there were any of you left alive," he said in a hollow drawl. "This is your lucky day."

Norrington recalled the horrified, drained corpses of the men who'd been alive only seconds before. "What are you waiting for? I'm at your mercy, aren't I?" Still on the ground, unable to go for his sword, he felt himself falling back on the persona he'd once made for himself, the Norrington who fought and clawed his way through life, the wounded dog who bit any who came near whether or not they were friend or foe.

"What would be the point?" the captain said. "You're a cursed man, James Norrington. Far be it from me to deprive you of your second chance at life. And the monster you're destined to become."

His words chilled Norrington, not only because of the use of his name but because this _thing_ knew what had happened, that he'd…that he'd…

 _Elizabeth had only just left him, the feeling of her lips against his very prominent in his mind, when the decaying sailor had confronted him at the stern._

 _"No one leaves the ship." Bootstrap's eyes were confused as he fought a continuous war within himself, fighting to hold on to the last shreds of humanity, of rationality._

 _Norrington put himself between Bootstrap and the escaping Elizabeth and crew. He gripped his sword in one hand. He didn't want to hurt this sailor but he would if he had to._

 _Humanity was losing the war. Bootstrap was muttering something under his breath._

 _"Stand down, sailor. That's an order."_

 _Bootstrap did not stand down. "That's an order," he mumbled. "Part of the ship, part of the crew…" he chanted and it became a mantra and he advanced upon Norrington._

 _Norrington held his ground, sword pointing at Bootstrap's chest. "Steady, man."_

 _It was no use. The pirate was too far gone for that. "Part of the ship, part of the crew. All hands! Prisoner escape! Part of the ship, part of the crew!"_

 _"Belay that!" He drew his pistol._

 _A cry came from behind him and Norrington saw that Elizabeth was coming back for him, but he couldn't let that happen, she had to escape, had to be free._

"Our lives have been entwined Elizabeth. But never joined."

 _He bit his lip. It seemed he wouldn't be joining her after all. He swung the pistol around, aimed it into the night. Fired. His only shot. The aim was true. Elizabeth and those who hadn't yet made it to the_ Empress _plunged down into the water._

 _Norrington turned and met steel as a blade slid between his ribs._

Somehow, this creature, this cursed abomination, knew what he was, knew that he had died. That was the worst thing.

"I've already been a monster," Norrington said. "Do not presume to know me."

"Your time is running out," the captain said. "I tire of this place and these cowardly, weak mortals. I leave now but I will return. And when I do, there will be a place in my crew for you."

"You're mad. What makes you think I'd have anything to do with you?"

The captain barked out a laugh. "When you're time comes, you won't have a choice. You died once and the curse revived you and now you will never die again. But soon enough, neither will you be alive."

Those damning words echoed in Norrington's ears even as the creature left and took his undead hordes with him and the dark ship sailed away and the storm passed and Norrington stared out to sea, surrounded by the bodies of the fallen.

His heart beat strongly in his chest.

He wondered how long he had until it once again fell silent.


	2. Jolly Roger

When Norrington pushed his way back into Tom's house, he found the barrel of a musket inches from his face. Reacting instinctively, he pushed it aside and it went off, the sharp retort making him wince in pain and stumble. A loud ringing pierced the side of his head and he shot Tom an irritated look through his disorientation.

Guilt replaced the determined fear in the old man's face and then he huffed, his shot spent. He pulled the musket back to him.

"Don't bother. He's gone," Norrington said and he pushed his way off the wall where he'd leaned. Every sound that entered his left ear was muffled under the constant ringing. He was still holding the sword, its blade clean as if no battle had taken place. When Tom ignored him and continued to reload, he said again, "He's gone," adding a bit more force to his voice. Then he turned and locked his gaze on Martha. "You know what that creature is." Not a question, a statement.

Martha was not a woman who could be easily intimidated, but at Norrington's accusation, she seemed hesitant, glaring between him and her husband. Eventually, she sighed.

"I'm honestly shocked ye've survived if indeed ya did go after 'im." She led him to the small dining room that doubled as a sitting room and sat wearily in a seat, gesturing Norrington to do the same. Etiquette was sacrificed due to the seriousness of the situation. "He's come twice afore, slaughtering all who stand in his way. This isn't the only town he's attacked, though. There have been others." She was shaken, that much was obvious. Remembering Tom with his musket, Norrington wondered if she'd expected the house to be broken into and her husband and herself murdered.

Tom came in then, still carrying the musket and sat down, laying it across his lap. "It's quiet outside. As if they'd never come." He cast a suspicious look at Norrington. "I wonder what turned 'em around."

"I've seen their sort of affliction before," Norrington said, an attempt to steer the conversation into safer waters. He wasn't prepared to discuss his encounter with the captain to anyone just yet. "A pirate crew cursed with undeath after taking Aztec gold." Only three years ago, he would have found the idea ludicrous, an outrageous fantasy. Now it was as matter-of-fact as the weather.

"Oh, but it weren't gold that turned them into monsters," Tom said. "It were their captain who done it. Cursed 'em all with his powers so that they'd always serve 'im. The captain hisself is the nastiest pirate who ever sailed, living or dead. His name is Jolly Roger."

Norrington nodded. "And what caused his own curse?"

"Well that's the really interestin' part." And here, Tom leaned forward conspiratorially. "The way the story goes, Jolly Roger was a fearsome pirate and skilled navigator. Clever too. So much so that he was hopin' to become a pirate lord hisself and help in the runnin' of the Brethren Court. See, the Brethren Court is –"

"I know what it is," Norrington said, eager to hear the rest of the story.

"Hmm. Well anyway, he never got it 'cause the seat he wanted was passed on to some lad named Jack…er, Sparrow, yeah, that was it. Jack Sparrow."

Norrington was immediately alert. _Jack Sparrow_? That smelly, loathsome, too-clever-for-his-own-good, worst-pirate-he'd-ever-seen, _that_ Jack Sparrow? Norrington balked. He hadn't learned very much of the Brethren Court before he'd been unceremoniously murdered, but he knew enough to recognize the honor and responsibility held by each pirate lord. He wondered who in their right mind would appoint Jack Sparrow to the Court and he voiced this exact incredulity.

"His own father, I think," Tom said in answer.

Norrington blinked. Well that explained it. But all the same, he couldn't imagine there being not one, but _two_ Sparrows loose in the world. Good Lord.

"Anyway," Tom said, "As ya can imagine, ol' Jolly's not too keen to lose out to Jack Sparrow like that. So what he did was he challenged Jack to a game a' cards. 'Cause they both liked to gamble, see." Norrington did see, but he didn't quite see the point of it. "They played several rounds and Jolly won them all 'cause he was cheatin'. Devil that he is, he hired this bloke to deal the cards who knew a bit of the dark arts. Evil magic, you know, to make sure that Jolly won every hand. And before ya knew it, Jack was down with nothin' left to bet. Nothin' save his seat on the Court."

Norrington wondered how such an idiot could have made it so far and he absolutely refused to believe in luck.

"It was just what Jolly was waitin' fer. He'd get what he'd always wanted and leave Jack with nothin'. But the thing was, Jack knew Jolly was cheatin' so for the final round, he went and cheated too. Won the round. And Jolly was furious. Figurin' the dealer had double-crossed 'im, he shot the bugger and with his dying breath, the man cursed Jolly Roger and turned 'im into the undead monstrosity ya saw outside."

"That seems rather…unfortunate," Norrington ventured.

"Yup. People say he now wanders the Caribbean lookin' fer Jack to get revenge or some such."

"I see." Norrington couldn't get the feeling of Jolly Roger's powers out of his mind, the penetrating gaze of those hollow eye sockets, the coldness in his petrified limbs, unable to breathe.

 _"You're a cursed man, James Norrington."_

Norrington found himself absentmindedly rubbing the back of his hand. He stopped. "And this curse bestowed upon Jolly's men. Can it be removed?"

"Dunno…Don't much care. Better to destroy 'em afore they can destroy ya. But if anyone knows, that Jack fella might."

Jack Sparrow. Of course. If Norrington believed in gods of fate, they'd surely be laughing at him now. Could he never escape the curse that was Jack Sparrow?

It was quite late, early in the morning in fact, and he realized that he was exhausted. He stood. "I again thank you for your hospitality. As soon as I can gain passage on a ship, I will take my leave." With that, he excused himself and retired to his room. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was the green night and the wicked face of the skull that stared back at him.

* * *

The next morning, the H.M.S. _Resilient_ came into port with the news of Beckett's defeat at the hands of the pirates off the coast of Shipwreck Cove. Norrington was not sure how to react to this information. The officer in him cringed at the thought of British defeat, and against pirates no less. But he would not mourn the loss of Lord Cutler Beckett, that was for certain. It was also possible that meant that Davy Jones too was dead.

That very day, Norrington was able to secure passage onboard a merchant in exchange for shipboard labor though he never let on that he was an officer. He still wondered if his circumstances counted as desertion.

So, bidding his hosts farewell and not keen on ever returning to this place, he boarded the ship which set sail the next morning, his destination: Tortuga.

* * *

The harbor was busy with vessels, from grand three-masted square-riggers to slender fore-and-aft rigs and swift sloops. The merchant, an aged Indiaman, docked in deeper waters and Norrington was dismayed to see that Tortuga looked much as he remembered, albeit without the haze of rum to cloud his perception. The storefronts that lined the boardwalk were rickety and taverns outnumbered those establishments which did not serve alcohol. It was not a place he wished to be but he felt he had no choice. His first lead in defeating Jolly roger and ridding himself of the curse was Jack Sparrow and his best chance of finding the disagreeable man was in Tortuga.

It was evening and the Faithful Bride lured sailors, navy and merchant alike, into its warm, bubbly interior from which raucous laughter and music spilled out onto the street. Several musicians were playing string instruments, their twangs cutting through the din of drunken conversation. Norrington forced himself not to look too closely at the bar or the frothing tankards the serving girls set onto tables. It hadn't been very long at all since his own sojourn in Tortugan taverns just like this. His memory of that time was clouded, the details hard to make out. It was probably for the best.

"What can I get you, sailor?" The bartender homed in on him and he realized that he'd wandered over the bar. His clothes, an old pair of slops he'd managed to procure from Aux Cayes marked him as a sailor.

"Nothing for now, thank you," Norrington said, already scanning the crowd, searching for that all-too-familiar face. He had to squint to see into the shadows, but there was nothing and no one that caught his eye.

He was about to turn and make his way to the other side of the tavern when a young woman ran into him. He took in her faded yellow skirts and bodice that showed entirely too much cleavage and he frowned in distaste.

"Oh," she said and large eyes looked up at him, seeming to have a hard time focusing. She broke into a smile, showing yellowed teeth. "My. A handsome sailor. You look like a right gentleman. What say you to stayin' the night at my place, eh?"

Norrington stood back a step. "Madam, I appreciate the offer but must decline." He didn't make a habit of consorting with women of such…reputation.

"But I insist." She grabbed his arm and held it firmly even when he would jerk it away. "I'll make it worth your while." Now something akin to fear entered her eyes and Norrington thought there was more going on here than he'd first thought.

Somewhere, someone yelled and there was shoving.

"Come on. We can go right now. I won't disappoint." The woman was tugging at Norrington's arm and this time he pulled himself out of her grip.

"Madam," he said warningly and then a man shoved his way through the crowd. He was very large, though not in the way of muscle. He spotted the woman and his thick eyebrows furrowed.

"Get back here, you filthy whore! I ain't payin' fer that unless I get all my coin's worth." He marched up to them and his breath smelled of hard liquor. The woman ducked behind Norrington.

"I believe the lady's tired of your company," Norrington said though he could hardly consider her a lady.

"Tired? Who are you? Useless wench ain't even worth the coin."

"Sir, I suggest you leave." Norrington was well aware of the cutlass at his side and though it wasn't his usual saber, it would certainly do.

"Not until I get what I paid fer or take those coin back." He reached out, intent on pawing Norrington aside but the experienced officer saw it coming and ducked. Then he lashed out and kicked at the man's shins and the man roared and lurched forward and this time, Norrington couldn't dodge as the man's bulk crashed into him and sent him sprawling on the ground.

The rest of the fight was a flurry of punches and kicks and struggling and the only real thing that irked Norrington about it was getting thrown into the street, damp from the bucket of mop water that had been dumped over them. As if they were a pair of squabbling cats.

Afterward, there was nothing for it but to dust himself off and continue his search. All the same, it was a very distasteful welcome back to the port that had once chewed him up and spat him back out.

* * *

Several days passed and Norrington was beginning to wonder if he'd been wrong or worse, if Sparrow was dead (he knew his situation was dire when the thought of Sparrow's death was considered a bad thing) when he heard a familiar voice in the back of the Faithful Bride (the proprietor had only kicked him out for the one night, but still kept a wary eye on him). Letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, Norrington spotted the pirate at a table with two beautiful women, a blond and a redhead, and they laughed at whatever he'd just said, paying him utmost attention. It was with a mixture of trepidation and shame that Norrington approached the table.

He laid a hand on the back of Jack's chair. "Sparrow, you and I need to have a little chat."

Jack froze, stopping mid-sentence at the sound of that familiar voice, and then lifted his head, turning slightly to better see the man behind him. Norrington stared smoothly back, letting him know that he meant business.

"You're supposed to be dead," Jack said.

Norrington allowed a humorless smile to grace his usually stoic features. "And yet here I am."

"I…er…see." Jack cleared his throat. "Why don't you two ladies run off for a bit." He stood, ignoring their pouting as they turned their backs to him, the blond swishing her skirts more dramatically then was necessary and for whose benefit Norrington wasn't sure, seeing as Jack was no longer paying them any attention. He was scrutinizing Norrington, taking in his attire, the dinged sword at his side, his hard expression. He pointed a finger accusingly. "You were stabbed."

"So I was," Norrington agreed. "What of it?"

"A stabbing's hard to come back from, mate. Everyone thinks you're dead."

Something clicked in Norrington's mind. "Someone's been telling the story then."

Seeing where he was going with this, Jack smirked. "Aye, she's alive, if that's what you're wondering. Got herself crowned pirate king. My doing, of course. Fought Davy Jones, survived, and we left her on a little island before sailing away. Oh and by the way, she's a Turner now." He said this last as if he couldn't believe it.

Norrington let out a breath of relief. That she'd married Turner didn't come as a surprise to him, but he was glad that she was alive.

"So. I don't expect you came all this way just to catch up with an old friend," Jack said. "Though if it's some sordid kind of revenge you're after, I'd suggest going after a certain blacksmith-turned pirate. Though I must warn you, he's immortal now."

This did come as a surprise. And Norrington found that he was suddenly very annoyed.

"It has nothing to do with any of that," Norrington snapped. "I recently encountered a pirate with whom I believe you're acquainted and who wishes to kill you."

"You'll have to narrow it down a bit, mate."

"His name is Jolly Roger."

For the second time, Jack froze. It lasted considerably longer this time and Norrington was about to say something when Jack pointed and shouted, "Look! A monkey!"

Too startled by this reaction to turn and look, Norrington was still staring at Jack when the pirate turned and ran away.

"W-what?!" Norrington stood in dumbfounded silence for a whole two seconds before taking off after him.

Jack bowled through people with no grace, earning startled protests, curses, and dirty looks from those he shoved aside. Norrington had a considerably easier time of it, slipping through the tunnel that Jack was creating as the crowd closed narrowly behind him. To think that all of Norrington's obsessing over the pursuit of this pirate would lead to this, a foot chase through a rowdy tavern. And he no longer even had any interest in capturing Jack Sparrow for the Crown. He wouldn't even be here – didn't want to be, in fact – if not for the idea that Jolly Roger may have actually cursed him with something horrible and ambiguous that had brought him back to life but sounded as if it had a very bad downside. And the only thing he knew about this Jolly Roger is that Jack Sparrow had once bested him in a card game. Yes, that was certainly reason enough to come all this way to this forsaken port in order to have a chat with his least favorite person.

Said least favorite person clearly hadn't thought out his plan to escape as Norrington was rapidly gaining on him and the crowd was steering him toward the bar.

"Sparrow!" Norrington shouted, irritated, and reached out to grab the man's arm when Jack turned and yelped and threw a pint of ale in his face.

"Oi!" the man whose drink Jack had thrown said, but his protest was ignored.

Blinking and wiping the stinging alcohol from his eyes, Norrington grabbed Jack by the arm in a vice-like grip and slammed him against the bar.

"I didn't come here to play games," Norrington hissed and because it had to be said, he sighed and added, "I need your help."

"Eh?" Jack stared at Norrington and the briefly confused expression he wore transformed into one of suspicion. He placed a hand over Norrington's sleeve and Norrington didn't resist as Jack removed his hand from his person.

"So you came crawling over here to request aid from an old friend, is that it?" Jack drawled. "Well that's just fine, mate. And I'm flattered. Truly. But frankly, I've had quite enough of you and your lot to last a lifetime ever since you tried to kill me and so I see no possible reason why you would go so far out of your way to ask for help from me. So why don't you run along and ask your little friends in the navy, eh? Or maybe those two funny blokes who can never agree on anything." He made as if to leave.

"Captain," Norrington tried again and Jack stopped.

"Ah, so you've finally remembered. Good for you."

"You know him." His voice was low. "You know Jolly Roger. You're afraid."

"Afraid is such a negative term. I prefer cautious."

"Whatever you wish to call it, you two have history. And not good history from what I've gathered.

"I still don't see what this has to do with you."

Norrington was loathe to admit it, but he had no choice. "I'm cursed."

"Welcome to the club, mate." Jack smirked.

Norrington answered with a scowl. "Surely you've seen the state of Jolly's men."

"Can't say that I have. Though if Jolly's condition is anything to go by, it must be atrocious. Wouldn't recommend it."

This exchange was really beginning to try Norrington's patience. "I came to you because you've had dealings with him in the past. And you're the only one I know who seems to deal with these sorts of things on a regular basis."

Jack was no longer trying to get away and was looking at Norrington in thought. "This Jolly Roger wants to kill me, you say?" That in and of itself was nothing new nor a surprise. "He doesn't happen to know where his quarry is, now does he?"

If Jolly Roger knew that Jack Sparrow was in Tortuga, they'd all know about it by now. Instead, Norrington said, "Yes, Sparrow, he knows exactly where you are and he's sailing this way even as we speak."

"You're lying."

"Am not." Norrington balked at the notion.

"You just want me to help you lift the curse. Well tough luck. You're stuck with it."

"What do you think will happen to you then? Jolly Roger is searching for you and he will find you. What then? Will you wait only until he's found you to figure out how to get away?"

"Yep."

Norrington's brow wrinkled in agitation. "Because we've all seen how well that works out. A frantic search all over the place to renege on your contract with Davy Jones when you had thirteen years to figure it out."

"I was busy."

"I'm sure. And now?"

Jack hesitated and Norrington knew he had him. "Dying is rather painful, isn't it?"

"Quite."

Jack spun on his heel and several long strides took him to the door which he swung open into the bright Caribbean air. "Mr. Gibbs!" he announced, "We are leaving."

Uncertain by this rapid turn of events and wanting to keep an eye on the untrustworthy pirate, Norrington joined him in time to see his first mate stand abruptly from the barrel he'd been sitting on.

"Cap'n?" He frowned at the look on Jack's face. "Weren't we to be havin' a bit of a break from all that considerin' all that's happened?"

"Said break, peaceful and hazy and filled with the pleasures that make life worth living as it was, is now over. Barbossa's been restocking the hold. I want the _Pearl_ 's bow pointed toward the horizon as soon as possible."

Gibbs looked uncertain as he replied, "Aye, Cap'n."

"Then step to it. And go get, er, everyone else. Anyone who's not on the ship when I'm ready to set sail gets left behind."

Jack didn't stay long enough to see if Gibbs carried out his orders, heading straight down to the docks and the _Black Pearl_ which rested serenely in the harbor.

"I encountered Jolly Roger in Essequibo," Norrington said, following. "If we sail south around the coast of Hispaniola, we can probably meet him on the way. That is, if you've got a plan."

He wasn't sure if Jack Sparrow had heard or was electing to ignore him as he climbed the gangplank and cried out, "All hands! We will be leaving shortly so prepare to make sail. Quickly now!"

After a moment of confusion, the sailors leapt into action and scurried to their posts.

Norrington watched Jack warily as he ascended to the quarterdeck, shouting more orders. Then he surveyed the Tortugan harbor, took out his compass, examined it before putting it away again. After he'd run off at Isla Cruces, Norrington hadn't thought he would ever serve aboard the _Pearl_ again. He only hoped this whole ordeal would be over with sooner rather than later.

* * *

Just out of sight of the southern coast of Hispaniola, the _Harkaway_ cut through still waters. Even in the middle of a clear day, a darkness settled over wherever the _Harkaway_ sailed, her sails tattered and torn yet somehow the vessel managed to sail without the aid of the wind, thus allowing her to sail at any angle to it, even against it.

On her rotted quarterdeck, Jolly Roger stood and surveyed the weather deck where silent crewmen went about unnecessary duties, swabbing a deck that never got any cleaner, adjusting the angle of sails that caught no wind. Mindlessly performing the habits they'd learned in life.

Jolly had been intrigued to come across the former naval officer in Essequibo. Before that night, he'd thought all of his kind had been either destroyed or converted. The method by which Norrington had become cursed was one he had utilized only once. He much preferred to curse men in person, with his own hands. It was far more reliable, his new followers easy to control. That time, that one time…that had been his rage.

Now, ever since Norrington had begun to awaken, he could sense the man's presence in much the way he could sense the presence of any of his crew. That feeling, vague, in his hollow chest, led northwest. No doubt, Norrington would seek out a way to undo his curse, a desperate attempt that would prove futile.

All the same, Jolly was eager to see what his wayward future-crewman would do.

* * *

"I'm tellin' ya, we got ten."

"Nah, it were nine."

"Uh-uh. Ten. That one we knocked overboard."

"Ya didn't knock 'im overboard, ya nitwit. He fell. So I say it were _nine_."

"But 'e still died, didn't 'e? That counts."

"Why you insufferable…!"

"Shut up, both of you. Idiots."

Pintel and Ragett shut up but continued to give each other dirty looks behind Barbossa's back. The three had returned to the docks and Barbossa seemed quite adamant about setting sail right away. However, whatever his plans had been were suddenly cut short as he stopped so suddenly that his two tag-alongs nearly ran into him.

At the end of the dock was a single dinghy.

"'s gone," Ragetti said.

"But how could it be gone?" Pintel said. "Ships don't just sail away."

"This one does," Ragetti said, pointing out to sea and sure enough, they could spot a black fleck making its way toward the horizon.

"Jack Sparrow," Barbossa growled, turning the name into a curse and he was visibly trembling with rage. "Get back here with my bloody ship!"


	3. The Sword of El Patron

**A/N: So, I guess it's been a year since this was last updated. That certainly wasn't supposed to happen, haha... I was focusing on my original fiction for a bit and I _did_ write three books since then so at least I was doing _something_ writing related? Anyway, here is chapter three, long overdue, and as always, I own nothing.**

* * *

Norrington hadn't thought he'd ever sail aboard the _Black Pearl_ again. As much as he hated to admit it, she really was a beautiful ship. She soared over the water, her black sails taut in the wind like the wings of a bird and he thought he could feel her speed through the soles of his boots. It reminded him of his time spent chasing her aboard the _Dauntless_. When he'd seen the storm, he hadn't thought the _Pearl_ would be able to evade it. He'd thought he could catch her before the storm was upon them.

The memory made him close his eyes in shame. All those lives lost. The _Dauntless_ , lost.

The flash of lightning. The roll of thunder.

"…and then she rose up out of the sea, not a mark on her and not a more welcome sight there ever was," Gibbs went on, bringing Norrington back to the present. He blinked against the bright horizon and grimaced. As they stood on the fo'c'sle, Gibbs had taken it upon himself to regale Norrington with the details of their battle with Davy Jones at Shipwreck Cove. But Norrington was only barely listening.

"'T'weren't Davy Jones controlling her anymore, as I'm sure Beckett probably thought, neither, but Will. And I can tell you, as soon as Beckett lost his unwitting ally it was all over for him."

Norrington had already heard bits and pieces of the story on his travels to Tortuga so he'd known what to expect. Either way, he found himself tensing at the confirmation of Will's survival and he had to force himself to relax. Elizabeth had chosen and it hadn't been him. Norrington always prided himself on his honor, an asset which he had earned and then thrown away, and now tried to regain. As much as it hurt, as much as he could never forget Elizabeth's cry or her kiss on the night that he'd died, he had to let her go.

"Something's wrong," Norrington murmured.

"And the entire fleet, musta been about three hundred ships, turned tail. What?"

Norrington straightened, pushing off the rail. Above him, the sails rippled. A man was coming down the ratlines. "We're going in the wrong direction."

Gibbs stuttered but Norrington ignored him as he made his way back toward the quarterdeck where Jack stood at the helm. Now that they'd left Tortuga, now that the attack on Essequibo had faded somewhat, Norrington wondered what on God's green earth had possessed him to seek out Jack Sparrow for help. The man most likely to run away as soon as any form of danger presented itself.

He might have had better luck pleading his case with that snake, Barbossa.

"Essequibo is to the south, Sparrow," Norrington said. And felt instantly foolish, realizing he was trying to act like an officer of the navy. Which he no longer was.

Jack continued to stare at the horizon, lips moving faintly as if he were deep in thought about something.

"Sparrow." Jack could hear him, that much Norrington knew and he certainly hadn't sought out the pirate to play his infuriating games.

" _Captain_ ," Norrington hissed.

Whatever reverie Jack had been enjoying, he instantly snapped out of it. "Oh, Admiral. Didn't see you there."

Completely insufferable.

Normally, Norrington would remind Jack that he was no longer in the service. At least, not insofar as he could be considered an officer anymore, what with recent circumstances. Yet Jack insisted on referring to him as admiral, which irked him about as much as Jack's insistence on being called captain.

"Essequibo is to the south," Norrington reiterated. "As the last known whereabouts of Jolly Roger, it only makes sense if we sail to the south. Yet, according to the position of the sun" – had Sparrow _really_ thought he could trick him so easily? – "we are, in fact, sailing north."

Jack looked taken aback at that. He glanced again toward the horizon, shielding his face with his hand. "Oh. So we are."

Norrington really needed to learn not to expect anything different by now. "Why?'

Jack sighed as if only now realizing that he wasn't fooling anyone. He took a step away from the wheel. "Admiral," he said, solemnly. "I've not been fair to you."

Now it was Norrington's turn to look shocked. The feeling was instantly replaced with suspicion. What was Sparrow up to now?

"We are not, in point of fact, sailing for Essequibo. Our freedom from Jolly's wrath, in actuality, lies to the north." With a flourish, Jack pulled out his compass and Norrington had to force himself not to roll his eyes. With the air of one opening a chest to reveal a priceless treasure, Jack lifted the lid.

"Sparrow," Norrington breathed in warning for the compass' needle spun wildly, not slowing nor halting. "You're running away."

Jack snapped the compass shut. "That's such a one-sided way of seeing things."

"You are. You're running away. Just like you tried to outrun Jones. Just like you tried to outrun me."

" _Succeeded_ ," Jack said. "I _succeeded_ in outrunning you."

Norrington's patience snapped. He drew his sword and pointed it at Jack's chest. "You and I both have the misfortune of sharing the same predicament. You may have escaped the law, but your own actions caught up in the end. It was sheer luck that gave you compatriots loyal enough to spring you from the Locker, though Lord only knows why. But luck can only take you so far. Jolly Roger does not strike me as the type of creature to let such a slight as yours go unanswered. He will hunt you to the ends of the earth and when he catches you, who will save you then?"

"I thought you would have learned by now." Jack pulled out a pistol and leveled it at Norrington's face. "If you wish to survive, you'll worry more about your own luck, savvy?"

Jack's aim and gaze were unwavering but when the pain finally did come, it came from behind, a skull-jarring thud that sent the horizon racing toward him.

Blackness met him halfway there.

* * *

Recent events must have addled his brain to make Norrington ever think that trusting a pirate would be a good idea. There was certainly plenty of time to mull it over in the brig. The stench of the bilges was thick in the air. The ground surged beneath his feet. With each movement of the ship, the lantern on the other side of the ill-fitting door cast a sliver of light into the room.

There was no point in trying to escape. His sword was gone. Even if he could get out of the cell, there was nowhere to go. He was only surprised that he hadn't awoken in a longboat and been set adrift. As it was, his head throbbed and when he probed it with a hand, he felt a sizable lump there. It was an embarrassing situation and yet he couldn't help the bark of laughter that forced its way out of his throat. It really was a terrible idea. He'd known it from the moment he'd first conceived the plan. Jack Sparrow was selfish and a coward. The only thing Norrington had accomplished was giving Jack ample warning, enough so that he'd know to run away.

Which begged the question, where? He had no doubt Jolly Roger would pursue them relentlessly. And what, then, would become of Norrington?

"Judging by the look on your face, I assume I'm interrupting something."

Norrington scowled.

"Ah. That's better."

The _Pearl_ dipped and Norrington had to hold onto the bench to keep himself centered. Jack tottered drunkenly but that was usual for him.

"You're probably asking yourself 'What is to become of me now that my only savior has decided to save his own skin instead of mine?' If you hadn't so rudely begun to wave your sword about, I'd have told you."

Norrington said nothing.

"My compass," – not this again – "is not broken. Disregarding the fact that it does not point north nor is currently pointing to what either of us want most. Fortunately, I know what that thing is and due to its…properties…is unable to be detected by my compass."

"Another treasure hunt?" It was truly terrifying the number of treasures or mystical objects that seemed to litter the Caribbean.

"A sword," Jack elaborated. "Said to be made of pure gold and yet stronger than steel. Owned by a Spanish conquistador known as something or other El Patron."

Norrington lifted a brow, dubious, but at least Jack wasn't talking about running away from the problem entirely. "So history repeats itself."

"There's no call for insults."

Norrington leaned forward but it seemed that bringing up Jack's failure to retrieve the Dead Man's Chest in a timely fashion yet again would be a waste of time. "This sword will stop Jolly Roger?"

Jack took a step forward and removed a key ring from his sash. "The sword will stop Jolly Roger."

The door swung open and Norrington's irritation had to wait. He emerged onto the weather deck, blinking in the watery sunlight. It had been several days since their departure from Tortuga and they had sailed farther north.

In the distance, a mere speck on the horizon, was the dark silhouette of an island.

 _So he knew where he was going at least._

Jack relieved Gibbs at the helm. "Trim gallants and topsails. We're heading into dangerous waters."

Norrington leaned over the rail to get a better look at the island. There was something about it that left an unsettling feeling in his stomach.

* * *

Raven's Cove was a graveyard of ships dashed against the rocks during storms and fog. Rotten hulls protruded from the surf and towering masts held up tangles of broken spars, rigging, and tattered canvas. Moonlight shimmered in rivulets among the debris and the still water rippled with the _Pearl_ 's passing. The last remnants of the setting sun outlined the horizon and the western edge of the island in gold.

Norrington's skin prickled as the chill set in. It reminded him partly of Isla de Muerta, but colder somehow, more ominous. Whereas the island of death had hinted at the thriving pirate lair within, a cavern filled with gold, this place seemed no more than a dead, inhospitable rock.

"Wasn't always like this," Jack said as he gently guided the _Pearl_ with miniscule movements of the wheel. "Used to be a pirate community, a haven for those just tryin' to live. Until Beckett and his ilk." He gave Norrington a meaningful look.

Norrington had heard of Raven's Cove. He'd been a captain at the time, still possessing the youthful sense of honor and ambition that served him well in the navy, though he was not so inexperienced that they were not tempered by reality.

 _"Twenty ships?" Norrington said, quirking a brow at the young midshipman who had delivered the news._

 _"Aye sir, and well-armed too."_

 _"Hmm. Thank you, Mr. Kelly," Norrington said, dismissing the boy. It irked him the kind of power Beckett was gaining as of late. And what sort of cargo required that the East India Company hire twenty ships to keep it safe?_

 _"An expedition to Raven's Cove," Captain Bailey told him later. "It's naught but a single British colony, though overcome by all manner of filth. Perhaps a visit from the king's men will straighten them out."_

 _"I have no doubt it will." But another word occupied Norrington's thoughts, the other reason for the voyage to that dank rock._ Treasure. _Something Beckett was very eager to get his hands on._

Word of what had transpired at Raven's Cove had never left its shores, it seemed. Norrington had to assume that Beckett had never found what he'd been searching for or his power would have been far greater. And here, the water was a maze of sunken ships.

"Reef all and drop anchor. From here, it's the longboat." Norrington had wondered when Jack would give that order. The debris had been spaced reasonably far from them but closer to shore, there was so much of it, maneuvering would be all but impossible.

His gaze fell on the tattered remnants of the British colors, worn almost to gray. But there were other ships too, even more broken, and a few flags among them that had also faded to gray. But he could tell from a glance that they had once been black.

The sense of unease Norrington had felt upon first catching sight of the island only increased as they rowed ashore, careful to avoid the broken vessels and nudging away smaller debris with their oars.

Raven's Cove was as bleak up close as it had appeared from afar. Norrington was surprised that anyone could have lived here once. The shore was mostly rocky and rose to sheer cliffs around most of the island. Ravens flew overhead and their caws broke the deathly stillness of the air.

"Look alive," Jack said to those who had come ashore – Norrington, Gibbs, Marty, and himself. "Island's just as cursed as Jolly albeit not so friendly." He made no more warning than that.

Norrington hesitated on the shore. Lord only knew why he was putting himself through this. But in the end, he didn't have much choice.

"After you, Mr. Norrington," Gibbs said and he felt the slightest bit of gratitude that this man at least had forgone to call him by title. He was reminded of when the two of them had served in the navy together, however brief. Gibbs had never been his favorite person – he'd been drunk most of the time and was more superstitious than ten sailors put together – but at least he'd been honest. Until his desertion, anyway.

"Sparrow is unusually cooperative," Norrington said as they walked uphill and away from the shore and the single dock that had nearly rotted through.

"Aye," Gibbs said. "Don't know whether to be worried or pleased considerin' the circumstances. One'd think all this would end after the business with Davy Jones."

"One would think," Norrington murmured. He'd thought he was over it but there it was, that slight tremor, the smallest of tenses as if he were expecting a blow, the way his skin went warm and then cold in quick succession. He could still feel the water in his throat, the suffocating weight of the ocean, and still even feel the cold burn of steel pierce his heart.

"What did he mean when he said this island is cursed?" Norrington asked, breaking out of the memory. He was no stranger to curses now, having seen more than his fair share, but the growing number of them in the Caribbean was really getting out of control.

Gibbs made a noise that was like hesitation and unwillingness and maybe hinted that he didn't actually know as much as he let on. "If ya can call it cursed," he said finally. "I'm sure ya saw those sunken ships on the way in."

Norrington ignored the sarcasm and Gibbs' pointed look.

"'S not the first time Jack's paid a visit to Raven's Cove, but I pray it'll be the last. Ever since the massacre…" He shuddered. "Let's just say some of the townsfolk elected to stay."

That certainly did not bode well.

Norrington kept his wits about him, glad that Jack had decided to return his sword, though the pirate had no doubt been reluctant to do so. Though what good a sword would do when faced with the undead remained to be seen.

There were skeletons in the town. Bones bleached white from the sun, scraps of cloth clinging to their frames, some of which were only held together by fleshy ligaments. Others were no more than piles of bones, picked clean by the ravens and whatever other animals had come across the corpses. The smell had long since faded but Norrington found himself raising a sleeve to his nose all the same.

Had Beckett done this? There had been a time when Norrington would never have doubted the honor and integrity of his countrymen, a time when he would have balked at the mere mention of such an atrocity. To kill soldiers in battle was one thing but this…these people had been innocents. Only he had seen Beckett's ruthlessness for himself, the shackled rows of men, women, and children being lead to the gallows, some for no crime greater than that of association.

Norrington mulled over the possible scenario, that the townsfolk had defended the treasure, that Beckett had ordered them cut down, an image that was prevalent now that he was walking among the aftermath of that long ago fight.

For the first time since Norrington had learned the fate of the _Endeavour_ , he was truly glad that Beckett was dead.

A rattle of bones broke Norrington out of his thoughts and he tensed but it was only Jack plucking an old bottle from the grip of a skeleton huddled at the side of a well.

"Ol' Ned. Knew 'im. Wondered where he'd gone." Jack tipped the bottle and not a single drop came out. "Drunk 'imself to oblivion from the looks of it, the sorry sod."

Norrington, who'd once drowned himself in drink, could understand the despair that might have infected the sole survivor.

The ground in several areas began to glow red. Jack immediately dropped the bottle and it hit with a hardy thunk before rolling a little ways away. Without thinking, Norrington drew his sword, Gibbs' warning still fresh in his ears. Everyone else followed suit, drawing sword and pistol, shifting so they were all facing different directions.

"Captain?" Gibbs called.

"That won't do, Gibbs. Nothing will."

Still, they held their ground as the red glowing spirits began to rise, becoming transparent figures, those of men and women, eyes dark as the surrounding night, emanating an eerie red glow.

Norrington tightened his grip on his sword.

The ghost nearest him, a man with his hair tied back, a tricorn on his head, and nearly his entire jaw missing, raised a sword in his direction.

They were silent, all of them. Not a single footstep, not a scream, not a ringing of swords as they attacked. There was, however, a coldness which spread across Norrington's body like ice wherever the ghosts touched. His sword cleaved straight through a body, proving its state of incorporeality. For an instant, for a single instant as sharp and clear as the sting of a blade, he thought the effect would work both ways.

It didn't.

The ghost's sword felt just as real as any. As real as the sword which had pierced his chest and ended his first life. And when it entered his chest, he stood frozen as first a pressure and then a dull ache began to radiate out from his center. He staggered back but did not fall. It was difficult to breathe only until he realized he did not need to. It hurt, though. Very much.

When they both realized what had happened, Norrington reached up to pull the sword from his chest but as his hand closed around it, it dissipated and reappeared in the ghost's hand.

The ghost obviously had not anticipated this and Norrington saw the shadow of shock in the barely perceptible contours of its face. A reflection of his own. Though it should not have come as a surprise.

 _"You died once and the curse revived you and now you will never die again."_

Norrington recovered fast. Taking advantage of the situation, he lunged, swiping his sword through the ghost which made no effort to defend itself. The sword passed clean through and the ghost dissipated in its wake. In fact, all of the ghosts did, leaving Norrington, Jack, Gibbs, and Marty standing in a perplexed group, weapons out but no longer with any enemies to defend against.

"Was that supposed to happen?" Marty said, not daring to turn and look at the others.

"I'd wager they'll be back soon enough," Gibbs said.

And sure enough, they were. Only this time they did not charge and there was no sign of a weapon among them. They just stood there. Watching.

"Why don't they attack us?" Gibbs' voice was tense, making Norrington wonder if the man would have preferred to be attacked rather than stared at by the horde of red glowing spirits. Norrington had to admit it was unnerving.

"Something tells me they have bigger things to worry about," Jack said and Norrington spared him a glance, but Jack didn't notice, his gaze riveted on the ghosts.

"Jack Sparrow," said a voice. It was a woman's voice, soft, a melodic accent that Norrington couldn't place, and it echoed strangely in his ears.

Norrington turned, sure by now that turning his back on the red ghosts wouldn't offer disastrous consequences.

"Mara!" Jack exclaimed. "You look…well."

The ghost who had spoken offered a wry grin. The first thing Norrington noticed was that unlike the angry spirits that had attacked them, this one seemed as if she were made of mist, the contours of her body, the folds of her dress appearing and disappearing as the mist shifted. The second thing he noticed was that most of her left arm was missing and there was a dark slice across her throat which could not fail to draw the eye to the evidence of her demise.

"And you are still alive," Mara said. "And here I thought you must be dead for you've not visited in some time."

"Really? In that case, I am here to rectify that mistake. Might I just say you're lovelier than ever. And the garden's doing well, I see." He indicated a garden bed empty save for the twiggy remains of dead things. "Could do with less security."

"These spirits were cursed to protect the treasured weapons from intruders. Rage is all they know."

"My condolences."

The spirit took steps forward and dismissed the red ghosts with a wave of her hand. They faded into the night. "They tell me one of you bears the curse of Jolly Roger."

Was that why the ghosts had ceased attacking them? With the danger past, Norrington sheathed his sword. "You know of Jolly Roger?"

"Know him?" Mara laughed, a hollow, watery sound. "He is the one who did this." She gestured at her missing arm, brought a finger up to trace the deep mark at her throat.

Norrington found his muscles relaxing. He hadn't even realized how tense he'd been. So Beckett hadn't murdered them all. For some reason, this revelation brought some amount of relief.

Still, there was something not quite right, the memory of a fleet flying the EITC flag. "What of Lord Beckett?" he asked. "He came here, didn't he? About six years ago?"

The ghost's face soured. "The esteemed Cutler Beckett." She made the name sound like a curse. "He came here, yes. And met Roger at our shores. They fought. Our deaths were merely the consequences of their conflict."

So Beckett had been responsible after all. Just not the only one. Norrington didn't know why he was so disappointed.

"But that is not the tale you came here for," Mara said.

"We're looking for your treasure," Jack said before Norrington could say anything and he cast the pirate a look that was half shock and half irritation. Right, just tell the ghosts who were cursed to guard the treasure that's exactly what you're after. "A certain sword in particular. A certain…golden sword."

"You seek the sSword of El Patron." She didn't let on what her feelings about that were. "You are too late. The Sword of El Patron along with a cache of other cursed weapons have already been taken from this place."

"You need better red ghosts, mate."

"Taken?" Norrington said.

"Aye." Mara's hollow gaze fell on him. "Taken by your own Cutler Beckett."


	4. A Watery Grave

**A/N: I originally wanted to post this on Saturday but life got in the way even though I specifically said I didn't want one of those. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, followed, etc. It's great to know I'm not writing into a void. I also just put up a new Norrington and Weatherby one-shot, "All the King's Men", if anyone wants to check that out. Otherwise, on with the story.**

* * *

Twenty ships? For what, I wonder _. Norrington watched from the shore as the vessels departed, flying the Union Jack and the gray and white EITC flag. What sort of treasure did he hope to find? The fleet had been gathered in urgency and though Norrington had no measure of love toward Beckett, he was slightly disappointed he hadn't been chosen to join the fleet._

Now, standing in the aftermath of Beckett's voyage, Norrington had trouble making sense of it. The voyage had been successful. Why, then, had there been no evidence of it? The Sword of El Patron, other cursed weapons Norrington knew nothing about. Yet none of it had mattered in the end. Beckett had fallen just the same.

"So this was a waste of time," Gibbs said in a huff.

"Aye. You almost got us killed, bringin' us here," Marty said, looking up at Jack accusingly.

"Honest enough mistake," Jack said. "Though not entirely a waste. After all, before we came, we had no way of knowing that Beckett had taken the Sword. But now we do. So all we have to do is retrieve it."

"Oh, aye," Gibbs said. "We just turn around and march into the heart of Beckett's domain, avoid the bloody navy, and hope no one too unsavory inherited a sword you know full well Beckett would have guarded closely. And in the meantime, we've got Jolly Roger out for our hides 'cause you didn't know when to quit."

"I resent that," Jack said. "He asked for it."

"Jack."

"He's right, though, lord help me to admit it," Norrington said, interrupting them before their argument could become more heated. "We know where the Sword is most likely to be, at least."

"Most likely." Gibbs snorted. "Most likely to be hanged should we set foot there."

"We're not going to Port Royal," Jack said. "Beckett would never let the Sword out of his sight."

"You don't mean…"

"It went down with the _Endeavour_ ," Norrington said. "We're going back to Shipwreck Cove."

They fell silent and even Gibbs had nothing to say to that, at least not now. As for Norrington, the site of the battle where the _Endeavour_ had gone down was not a place he wished to visit.

"Be careful, Jack," Mara said. "One can only encounter so many curses before one goes mad with them."

"I rather think I've hit my limit," Jack said. "One more won't hurt."

Mara smirked. "Aye. You've already got the madness down. But all the same, you would do well to stay clear of the Sword of El Patron. The Sword has the power to undo Jolly's curse, but wield it too long and, well... El Patron's soul is restless and the rumors say that he and the Sword are bound to one another."

"And just who started those rumors?" Jack said in a tone of voice implying he already knew.

Mara's grin grew into something quite knowing that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant considering the expression was made from shadows in mist.

"If this Sword can undo Jolly's curse and by extension, my own, then we must go after it immediately." And the sooner this business was finished, the better as far as Norrington was concerned. Despite his current ill feelings towards the EITC and the navy, pirates were worse.

Jack shot a glance at him but said nothing.

"If you must," Mara said with a ghostly breeze that could only be a sigh. "Leave us be, Jack Sparrow. It is nothing we are not accustomed to."

If she had shouted at him, the insult could not have been plainer.

"It's nice when the undead are understanding," Jack said. "Much better than the stabbing and cursing and…" He made vague gestures that might have been to represent the malice of approaching undead hordes but might just have been a poor imitation of Ragetti's thousandth time losing his eye.

"Unnerving lot," Gibbs said as they walked back to shore, in the closest thing he could come to agreement. He was right though. The red ghosts still floated throughout the town and watched them as they departed, not moving, weapons hanging loosely at their sides, dark hole eyes fixed on them.

Norrington forced himself to look away. There was a strange sort of tingling just beneath his skin and he rubbed at his wrist which chaffed enough to be distracting. He was running out of time. He hadn't shown it to Jack or to anyone yet what he had only noticed on the voyage north during his time in the brig. A patch of skin just beneath the cuff of his jacket, red-rimmed and blackened where the flesh had already begun to rot away.

* * *

The sea was abnormally calm wherever the _Harkaway_ passed and unlike ships of the living, no sharks swam in her wake. Yet she carried with her a mysterious fog and aboard her deck, it always felt just on the verge of raining but it never did.

Jolly Roger clutched a spoke of the wheel in his hand, gazing out over the ocean, seeing through the mist. It had been many years since he'd sailed these waters and they still left a foul taste in his mouth and made him want to kill something.

"So we're…not going after that officer anymore?" a crewman named Bo said, a cap pulled low over his skull.

"We don't need to go after anyone," Jolly said, a low growl emanating from his ragged vocal chords. "He'll come to us."

"'E doesn't seem very important to warrant such interest."

"Bo, shut it," another crewman, Rafe, hissed. "He didn't mean nothin', Captain," he added deferentially.

Jolly grunted. In any other circumstance, he wouldn't have given a second thought to tossing the hapless Bo overboard. But he was preoccupied. Ever since his encounter with James Norrington in Essequibo, his thoughts had strayed to that moment he'd finally caught up to Jack Sparrow after so long only to have the wily pirate slip out from between his fingers. He'd vowed revenge. He'd failed. And in his anger, he had lashed out, had cursed the moonlight green for a single night. And Norrington, it seemed, had been caught by his rage.

The officer both fascinated him and repulsed him. A bitter reminder of how close he'd come to sending Jack Sparrow to a watery grave.

"Land ho!" a skeleton shouted from the crow's nest, in a voice that scraped and wheezed yet somehow carried down to the weather deck.

"Good. Reef all and drop anchor. And don't get too close. The Brethren aren't our quarry today." Though it was certainly on the list. He would deal with them after he got rid of Sparrow.

"You think that cursed fellow'll be coming this way?" Rafe asked.

"Aye. The winds are blowing in our favor. James Norrington is heading this way and he's not alone." Jolly rested his right arm heavily on the rail overlooking the main deck, the mishmash of weaponry that had replaced most of the limb. His eyes glowed and he could almost, but not quite, see through Norrington's eyes. "He sails with Jack Sparrow."

A ripple of excitement passed over the crew. Norrington was a curiosity to be sure, but Sparrow…he would not use his magic for this one. No, he looked forward to stabbing the cheating cur right through the heart.

* * *

Norrington could imagine Beckett's armada filling these waters and the pirates who had come out to meet them. He couldn't help but wonder what it might have been like had he not died. He would still have been in command of the _Flying Dutchman_. But beyond that, after what he'd been through, he couldn't honestly say what actions he might have taken. There was really no use in dwelling on the matter. The battle was over. The pirates had won. Davy Jones and Lord Beckett were dead. Norrington turned away from the rail in time to see Gibbs scurrying after Jack to the starboard rail.

"There is still one problem though, which I feel needs to be addressed," Gibbs was saying.

Jack pulled out a spyglass and peered through it. "I assure you, I have missed nothing."

"If you're right –"

"I _am_ right."

Gibbs gave an annoyed huff. "If you're right about the location of the Sword, it's still with the _Endeavour_."

"Precisely."

"On the bottom of the bloody ocean."

Jack snapped the glass shut. "You possess an acute sense of observation, Mr. Gibbs. When we get back to Tortuga, I shall give you a medal."

"Oh, for all that I must simply have missed the diving bell in the hold. Is that why the _Pearl_ be riding so low?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. The _Pearl_ was not riding low.

"A great big gold one."

"Mr. Sparrow, I suspect you're going somewhere with this?" Norrington butted in, sincerely hoping that was the case. Though he highly suspected that Jack's buffoonery was merely a façade that hid the calculating mind underneath. He'd learned it never did well to underestimate him.

"We're coming upon the wreck." Jack had spent much time in his cabin as of late, charting their course and like a responsible captain, he'd marked the location of the wreck in his log not long after it had attained that state.

"So let me guess," Gibbs said, not quite done. "You're going to hold your breath and swim down to the wreck, find the Sword, and bring it back afore you're drowned or devoured by sharks. Excellent plan."

"I won't be going," Jack said and Gibbs opened his mouth to say something more but he plowed on. "That unfortunate task falls to our favorite admiral," he drawled and Gibbs turned to look at Norrington who wasn't sure he'd heard right.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's simple, really. You go into the water." Jack moved his fingers in vague motions that might have resembled someone diving over the side. "Locate the wreck; it shouldn't be hard to spot. Find the Sword which will most likely be in Beckett's cabin. Then you swim back." His fingers didn't stop until he'd finished with a weird sort of wrist flourish.

Even after Jack's careful explanation, Norrington couldn't believe it. "I must protest this plan of action."

"Duly noted. Now off you go."

"This is complete and utter madness."

"When has anything I've ever done not been?"

"No man can survive that."

"Ah." Jack held up a hand. "But you are not, in fact, a man."

Norrington forgot the next thing he was going to say and the most confused expression contorted Gibbs' features.

"You are one of the undead. Therefore, the thing no man can survive is the thing you _can_ survive as you haven't got a life to give meaning to the word in the first place."

"Not quite undead yet."

"Close enough. The point being, you can hold your breath forever. So…off you go," he said again.

Norrington hated that Jack's odd logic made sense. After his last experience in the middle of the sea, he wasn't very keen on going back in.

"Surely you have a better option."

It was no use. "Sadly not," Jack said. He leaned in close, causing Norrington to grimace against the stench of rum on his breath. "But seeing as the only reason we're on this little voyage is so that you can save your sorry soul from Jolly's undead clutches, I would think you'd be more than happy to do anything to retrieve the only item which can free you from what binds you to him."

Damn it but he was right. When this was all over, Norrington was going to shoot him in the head.

It was made even worse by the fact that the entire crew had come over to watch as Norrington removed his coat, boots, and sword and never had he been so humiliated in his life.

"I can't believe he's actually going to do it," Jack muttered which made Norrington's face burn even more.

"I expect sincere gratitude from you, Sparrow, when my actions save _your_ skin." With that, he dove overboard.

The water hit him in a rush and he instinctively held his breath as he worked his arms and legs and powered downward. And the deeper he went, the more his chest tightened, the more he remembered finding the blood, waking up in the sea with the sting of the salt in his lungs and a cold ache in his limbs. He realized eventually that the pain now was real, his air-starved lungs proving that Jack was wrong but there was no time now to swim back to the surface, no time now to avoid a second death at sea.

Grimacing, he closed his eyes and let out the stale air through his teeth. It shouldn't have come as a surprise at this point, but he didn't die. The ache never quite went away though. He did his best to ignore it, plunging ever deeper, and though the water was clear, he could see nothing in detail, just the blurry-edged shadows of things. Reefs, rocks, fish which darted away in his presence.

The debris of a ship.

The sight renewed his vigor and he ignored his mounting tiredness, homing in on the vague silhouette. With each day that had gone by, with every hour, he'd felt Jolly's hold on him strengthen, the curse spreading. So far he'd managed to keep it hidden but he wasn't sure for how much longer he'd be able to keep it up. As much as he despised Jack Sparrow and his insufferable games, he _needed_ that Sword.

The wreck of the _Endeavour_ slowly came into focus as he descended, or what was left of her. It seemed she had been all but obliterated in the battle. He came across her fo'c'sle, bowsprit and jibboom still intact but stays ripped away. Norrington gripped the rail and made his way to where the timber had been torn, ragged edges barely beginning to wear from the water. The wood felt slimy and he remembered when he'd first laid eyes on the _Endeavour_. She had been a truly marvelous ship.

Now, he pulled himself along and peered over the edge into what would have been the lower decks but now seemed nothing more than silt and broken reefs. Fish scattered as he lowered himself to the seabed. Searching for the Sword was a tedious task and involved careful examination of almost unrecognizable remains and every time he stirred up the silt, he had to wait for the clouds to settle back down before he could continue. However long he was down there, he had not the faintest idea.

Covered in silt, almost hidden among debris, there were bodies. If they could even be called that. They were no more than skeletons now, picked clean by scavenging fish. He forced himself to look away from them, though in morbid curiosity he wondered if any of them or any of the severed limbs and bits of bone had once been Lord Beckett.

The dim waters were beginning to feel claustrophobic and cold and Norrington severely hoped he could end the search soon. Making his way to the cabin in the stern, he found few recognizable things. A desk, mostly intact though whatever had been on it was gone. A window with all the glass missing. It was in this very office that Norrington had been given his sword along with his new commission. All in exchange for the complete rule of the sea.

Hours of searching and the Sword was nowhere to be found.

 _This is completely useless,_ Norrington thought, scowling. He could barely see, blinking constantly from the sting of salt and sand. Even a cursory examination of the corpses revealed nothing and none of them he'd been able to identify as Beckett. This was a waste of time. _Like going to Raven's Cove had been a waste?_

Kicking hard against the debris-laden seabed, Norrington swam upward, squinting against the silt clouds and an urgency verging on desperation driving his movements. His lungs ached despite not needing air. His arms and legs were tired and the buoyancy of the sea was making him feel ill.

The shadow of the _Pearl_ 's hull loomed above him and he forced himself to swim harder, finally breaking the surface and experiencing the strangest sensation of gasping for air he didn't truly need but which alleviated the ache in his chest.

Everything, every sense, was muffled from being in the water so long and he could barely see anything. Beyond the fog in his brain was the ringing of a bell. Shouts. Something splashing into the water. Wiping at his eyes and squinting, he thought he saw something dark moving along the water coming straight for him. And on his other side, the _Pearl_ was running out her guns.

Norrington turned and forced his tired limbs to close the distance between him and the _Pearl_ and despite his trembling, he was able to grab onto the ladder after several tries and hoist himself up the side.

Nobody seemed to notice him as he staggered onto the deck in a puddle of seawater. They scurried across the deck, working at the cannons. Younger sailors rushed powder kegs onto the deck and Gibbs was shouting at the gun crew what was either encouragement or threat.

"Make haste, ye poxy bilge rats or it'll be the Locker for us all. Only this time there ain't any escape."

The _Harkaway_ fired her bow chaser and came dangerously close to hitting.

"Wait till we're in range and we fire afore they have a chance to bear their broadside."

The skies had been clear when Norrington had gone overboard. Now, storm clouds were gathering.

"Those not on the guns stand by the braces," Jack said and then he found Norrington on the deck and their eyes locked. "Stand by to loose all canvas."

The order confused Norrington for a moment until he was able to fully take in their situation. The _Harkaway_ was coming at them against the wind. As a fore-and-aft rig, she could sail closer to the wind than the _Pearl_ could with her square sails. And as such, the _Pearl_ couldn't simply run away, something Jolly Roger had taken into account. No, Jack was going to engage her and once the _Harkaway_ turned to fire a broadside, the _Pearl_ could maneuver to catch the favorable wind, essentially sailing straight past the _Harkaway_.

They couldn't afford a real engagement until they found that Sword.

The _Harkaway_ was getting even closer. Another shot and splinters flew from the starboard rail. The _Harkaway_ began to turn.

"Fire!"

The cannons on the _Pearl_ 's deck barked out a staggered volley and bucked, smoke filling the air. Norrington stayed at the starboard main brace and as the smoke cleared, he couldn't tell what damage had been done. The tattered _Harkaway_ was riddled with holes and yet still floated. Seconds later, she fired her own broadside.

Norrington ducked as cannon fire careened into the _Pearl_ and the ear-shattering shriek of splintering wood filled the air and the force of the hit caused him to stagger away from the rail. His right arm stung and bits of debris pricked at his side and back. When he finally lifted his head, he heard muffled screams from below where the damage had been undoubtedly worse.

The damage had barely been done when Jack shouted, "Slack port braces and haul starboard!"

Men were still screaming but Norrington's training took over and he grabbed for the main brace and began to haul with the help of several others, slowly bringing the yard around to better catch the wind as they turned. For now, getting away was their first priority. Someone else would see to the injured and assess the damage.

The _Harkaway_ was now so close that he could see the skeletons on her blackened deck. They raised their weapons and several aimed pistols and muskets. One fell back from a shot from the _Pearl_ 's foretop.

And there he was, Jolly Roger himself. His mismatched feet gave him a lopsided gait as he strode across the deck, shoving crewmen out of his way.

"Jack Sparrow!" he shouted.

Norrington's hand itched and he forced himself to ignore it, tying the line to secure it.

"Ya finally done runnin' from yer fate?" Jolly continued. "Realized ya couldn't run forever."

"But see that's where you're wrong, mate," Jack called back over the water that separated the two ships. "You can always run forever."

"Your intent that may be, yet here ya are. Returned to the battlefield and here I be. Would sure be a shame to waste such an opportunity."

"Life's full of disappointments."

The ships were gliding past each other. The storm yielded no rain and yet there was lightning and a single peal of thunder which Norrington took to mean that Jolly was angry.

"Aye, because life's a game, ain't it? Ya win a hand, ya lose two, ya keep trying. Until you've run out cards and things to bet. You've run out of time, Sparrow and now it's time to pay up."

Norrington glanced from Jolly Roger to Jack and back again. He saw no purpose in this exchange. They were so close. Why didn't Jolly order a boarding party to take the _Pearl_ by force?

"You're forgetting something though, you cow-hearted, mutinous, bone-faced mongrel."

Jolly stiffened and his crew looked to him to see what he would do.

"I cheat."

While the two had been exchanging words, the crew had had plenty of time to reload the cannons.

"Fire."

The broadside rocked the ship. Norrington reeled, instinctively covering his face as smoke choked him and debris from the _Harkaway_ flew across the deck. At this range, a broadside from the heavily armed _Black Pearl_ would be devastating. Bone shards rained down onto the deck. There were screams. But with a feeling of dread, Norrington realized that the ghost ship would not sink. That possibly she _couldn't_ sink, at least not until they retrieved that Sword and broke the curse. It was a desperate thing to be sure, a distraction at most. Perhaps it would give them time to put some distance between the ships, perhaps not.

Unfortunately, the _Pearl_ 's crew was not the only one that had kept busy while their captains had had their unproductive parley.

As the _Pearl_ was pulling away, the _Harkaway_ fired. Jolly must have realized what Jack was planning and now sailed at an angle to the _Pearl_. The broadside tore into the aft starboard hull and the stern.

This time, Norrington was thrown to the deck. The breath went out of him in a rush and he gasped when something grazed his cheek and a hail of splinters pelted the deck. Part of the starboard rail on the poop deck and quarterdeck was torn away and smoke quickly obscured everything, making Norrington cough as he scrambled to his feet, keeping low in case more debris came his way.

His first thought, bizarrely enough, was of Jack Sparrow and he fully expected to find the pirate dead at the wheel. But when he fought his way through the smoke up to the quarterdeck, Jack was nowhere to be seen and some hapless sailor, a man whose name Norrington had never learned, was lying in Jack's stead in a pool of blood.

He couldn't dwell on it. Stepping over the corpse, Norrington grabbed the wheel and kept the _Pearl_ steady, running before the wind. His left hand shook and he gripped the spoke tighter, using his other hand to pull the cuff down over the patch of necrotic flesh. It seemed to be growing.

 _Damn you_ , Norrington thought, not at anyone in particular, not at Jack, not at Beckett, not even at Davy Jones, just at the situation itself. At this strange fate which seemed intent on swallowing him whole. _Damn you._

A hand fell on his arm and Norrington's head snapped up.

"I'll take her from here," Gibbs said.

Norrington nodded and pried stiff fingers away from the wheel. With the smoke clearing, he saw that the _Harkaway_ was falling behind.

Jack ascended the steps onto the quarterdeck with barely a glance at the dead man.

Norrington wanted nothing but to go below, dry himself, and sleep. Instead, he caught Jack's eye.

"Your Sword's not there, Sparrow. If it ever was, it's gone. That's assuming it was ever there at all." Without waiting for a response, Norrington descended the steps and went below deck, welcoming the darkness he found there.


	5. Impasse

**A/N: I'm back! I promise I haven't abandoned this story. In fact, I have the whole thing outlined so it's not so much a matter of coming up with ideas as it is getting myself to stop procrastinating and write already. Sorry this chapter's kind of short. The next one will be longer. Enjoy!**

* * *

It wasn't the first time Jolly Roger watched the _Black Pearl_ sail away. He acutely remembered the sight of her fleeing through a delirium of fever, only realizing what had happened too late. And the glimpses of her through the rain and the wind when he'd been so close.

He was determined that this time would be the last.

There was no catching up to the _Pearl_ , not now, so Jolly ordered the anchor dropped but only long enough to allow several undead pirates to clamber aboard, dripping from the sea. Even before the _Pearl_ had arrived, they'd dropped to the sea floor to examine the wreck of the _Endeavour_ for themselves. Jolly had been more than pleased when he'd learned of Beckett's death. Once powerful allies, their association had ended suddenly and bloodily off the coast of Raven's Cove.

His crewmen had retreated and watched at a distance as Norrington had entered the wreck and confirmed Jolly's suspicions.

Jack Sparrow was after the Sword of El Patron. And that sword was gone.

For the first time in a long time, he felt a shudder of fear. Jack Sparrow knew his weakness, knew what would lift his curse and kill him in the process. He could not allow him to locate the Sword. Whatever the cost.

They weighed anchor and with all the speed her crew could muster, the _Harkaway_ sailed after the _Pearl_.

* * *

Jack finished up the bottle of rum in his cabin and emerged into the bright light on deck, intent on finding himself another, but Gibbs was standing between him and the way to the hold.

"Er." Jack made a shooing motion but Gibbs didn't budge. "Move."

"Captain, I think it's time we had a little chat."

"I agree." Norrington appeared on Jack's other side and Jack's nose twitched. So it was to be one of _those_ days.

"I rather think everything that needs discussing has already been discussed."

"Not quite," Gibbs said and gestured to the main deck where the whole crew was gathered.

"Is this a mutiny? Because I would greatly advise against such a course of action."

"The crew is of a mind you have no idea where the Sword is," Norrington said. "And some have their doubts it even exists in the first place."

He should have known Norrington would try something like this. "'Twould be a silly thing to die for." He needed an argument, something that would appease Norrington and satisfy Gibbs. The Sword wasn't with the _Endeavour_ even though he'd known for certain, which meant it must certainly be at Port Royal. Egh, Gibbs wouldn't like that. Maybe if he threw some money in it for good measure. No, he didn't have any money. How about rum, then? That always seemed to solve _his_ problems. He couldn't offer the good stuff, of course, but there was a bottle he'd acquired in Nassau that nobody knew about, would that do it?

Norrington, though. This simply wasn't going to work.

"The Sword is in Port Royal and I know exactly how we're going to get it."

Gibbs' brows wrinkled in surprise and he seemed to forget his animosity for a second. "How?"

Jack's lip quirked. Was it a shame? Maybe. Would he regret it? Absolutely not.

In a fluid motion, Jack drew his pistol, cocked it, and aimed it right between Norrington's eyes.

* * *

Norrington started from the sudden move and Jack's expression was dead serious. This wasn't a joke.

"How is it that ol' Jolly Roger seemed to know exactly where we were, I wonder," Jack said. "Quite a coincidence."

"A coincidence only." For someone with no cold-blooded murder in his record (Barbossa didn't count), Jack had a killer's eye.

"See, I've been running from that blaggard for some time. Always a step ahead. Until you came along."

Norrington should have known he couldn't trust a pirate. "We both know I can't die, Sparrow, so I suggest you put that away."

Jack smirked. "Maybe not. But I can make you ugly. And then I can throw your undead carcass overboard. Give my regards to Jolly Roger."

Norrington pursed his lips. Immortal or not, a shot to the face sounded extremely painful. "Might I remind you that if it weren't for me, you wouldn't even know of Roger's pursuit. However much we both dislike the situation, it will be over with more quickly if we work together. Perhaps we should let sleeping dogs lie, hmm?"

To his surprise, Jack seemed to consider it. "I'm tempted, mate. Truly I am. But I don't think you'll live long enough to see him to the depths." With his free hand, Jack grabbed Norrington's wrist and he was too shocked to pull away as the hand still holding the pistol tore back his sleeve. Black, rotting flesh glistened with sweat and puss, strung with tendons and, underlying, the gleam of bone.

"I thought so. It'll only progress quicker from here. I'm afraid you're not long for this world. At least not as you are now. As formerly commodore, formerly admiral James Norrington."

Norrington snatched his arm back. "I'm aware of the problem."

"Norrington's such a stuffy British name. Rot a bit further and you'll have to change it to Jim Bones."

Norrington grabbed a pistol out of Gibbs' belt and pointed it at Jack Sparrow. "But unlike me, you _can_ die."

"True. But who'd take you to the Sword then?"

"You would take me when a moment earlier, you proposed betrayal?"

Jack shrugged. "Pirates are funny like that."

"I would rather kill you now and do away with your nonsense altogether." He tightened his grip on the pistol. "You've been running us in circles and we are no closer to the Sword than when I located you in Tortuga. At this rate, Roger will have us both."

"I hate to say it, Captain, but he has a point," Gibbs said. "While you two stand around arguing, Roger is no doubt catching up to us. So either shoot each other don't. I for one will not wait around to be either cursed or killed. Or both." He stormed off.

Norrington and Jack stared at each other for a good few seconds before finally the tension between them lessened and they lowered their flintlocks.

"If the Sword is not in Port Royal, I will you shoot you," Norrington said.

"Wouldn't expect anything else," Jack said and snickered. "What happened to letting sleeping dogs lie?"

"I don't know, Sparrow. This way's more fun, I suppose." As Norrington turned away, he thought he saw out of the corner of his eye, Jack grinning.

* * *

Every ship on the board was in retreat. An entire fleet turned around by a roughshod gaggle of pirates. One ship captured. And one…

A figure leaned over and picked up a small wooden ship, the name _Endeavour_ engraved on its side. One ship, but it was loss enough. A single ship and the tide of battle turned.

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter."

A young ensign came in, nervous. "We've had word, Sir. That Sparrow's left Tortuga and in quite a hurry too. Should a ship be sent for him?"

"No." He turned the ship over and over in his hand. "We wait. Sparrow will come to us."

"Right, Sir." The ensign retreated.

The figure sighed. It had taken him longer than he'd thought. He smiled.

"Finally."


End file.
